


the consolation (prize)

by annieoakley1



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 00:57:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annieoakley1/pseuds/annieoakley1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peeta talks with his mother for the first time since his return from the Victory Tour.  Implied Peeta/Katniss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the consolation (prize)

He kicks the snow off of the bottom and sides of his boots, then stomps his feet for good measure. There’s a small, coarse mat in front of the door leading to the bakery’s back entrance, and he takes his time meticulously wiping his soles on it.

He had been here the day before, attempting this very thing.  Yesterday, after carefully cleaning his shoes, he entered through the kitchen just as he does now.

His brothers and father had been absent, and he surmised that they were upstairs, eating a late breakfast as his mother manned the front.  So he walked to the swinging door that led out from the kitchen and stopped just outside it, already worrying over what he was going to say to her. Then he heard their voices. His mother and Mrs. Cartwright weren’t quite friends, but they often exchanged the usual pleasantries during their daily transaction.

"He looked quite handsome at the dinner," Mrs. Cartwright said.

"Yes," his mother replied in her normal, clipped tone.

"I swear they’re playing footage from the tour all day long. You must be very proud."

He couldn’t see his mother, but he could imagine what she looked like standing at the register, her hands worrying over the till. She didn’t say anything, leaving the other woman to fill the awkward silence.

"I have to admit, we were devestated when Peeta was reaped," she said. "We…we didn’t expect for him to come home again."

He heard his mother’s soft exhale. “Peeta’s always been very good at being the runner-up. He’s just lucky that actually meant something this year.”

He didn’t feel much like facing her after that, so he turned around and left. Now he’s rooted back in the same spot, in the same situation.

Few words pass between the two women today.  Then Mrs. Cartwright thanks his mother, and he hears the bell above the door chime as she exits the building with her two loaves of wheat bread.

He steps away and then moves to the center of the kitchen, where he stands in front of one of the long tables they use when kneading dough. He could help here, again, if only they’d let him. But even they don’t need him anymore.

"Oh," his mother says, entering the room with a tray of cookies. "I wasn’t expecting you today."

She sets the tray on the table. They’re the butter cookies the tailor loves, so it must be a special order. “Do you need me to make more?” he offers. He’s desperate, absolutely desperate, for something to help pass the time. He can’t stand another second of the taunting quiet of his house in Victor’s Village (Haymitch, the only one who seems able to tolerate him these days, is probably still passed out in a pool of his own vomit, and there’s no one else).

"That’s not necessary," she tells him. "Why don’t you go on home. It’s supposed to snow all afternoon."

He drops his gaze, and then, just for a second, he can feel her relent.

"But you can join us for dinner tonight," she says.

Sometimes he gets a glimpse of what it would be like to have everything he ever wanted in a mother; sometimes, but only for a moment, she can be nearly nurturing and kind.

"Okay," he answers.

"Maybe you should invite your fiancee."

Oh, only for a moment, for she always returns with a renewed cruelty that pains him far worse than any physical blow ever could.

"Or will she be eating with her cousin?" she asks.

He’s not a complete fool, and he knows the twisted dynamic has been quite the gossip fodder for the town.  But only his mother seems particularly invested in tormenting Peeta with it.

Usually he refuses to let her bait him, but he’s having an especially difficult day, and it hurts.  He’s  _hurting_ , and the most terrible part of it is that the woman who should be the one protecting him is the very one bent on inflicting the worst wounds.

He can feel the start of tears sting his eyes, but he can’t cry.  He can’t give her exactly what she wants.  So he swallows back the lump in his throat, his jaw tense and aching with the effort.

'It's not you,' he tries to remind himself.  This is about a parallel she drew long ago when she caught him staring longingly at a little girl with two braids.  This is about his mother and his father and well over twenty years of resentment.

'It's not you,' he repeats, again and again.  He has to say it to himself because no one else ever has.

The tear slips down his cheek before he can stop it, and she grabs his face in both her hands.  He flinches, expecting the blow that always accompanies such a display, but her touch is surprisingly tender.  The back of her fingers caress his cheek, then move to cup his jaw.  When he meets her eyes, he’s shocked to find tears there that mirror his own.

"She doesn’t love you, Peeta," she says without the usual malice.  "Don’t spend the rest of your life allowing yourself to be someone’s second choice."

_She doesn’t love you, Peeta._

He thinks about the way Katniss’s lips felt against his own as they kissed in the snow.  Her breath and lips were warm and it took the sting out of the chilly air surrounding them.

_She doesn’t love you, Peeta._

He thinks about her hand in his as he held her while she slept.  Her hair smelt of honeysuckle and vanilla, and for once she looked as peaceful as she did beautiful.

The one thing he allows himself that his mother never did is hope.  He hates her and he loves her and he pities her, but he won’t become her.

"I’ll be back in time for supper," he says.  As he turns away, he pulls his coat tightly against his chest, bracing for the harsh cold awaiting him outside.

 

 

 


End file.
